tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11592610079333548382024-03-13T09:55:19.348-07:00Hariharan hereIts me..Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-65666974687410907212013-01-23T23:58:00.000-08:002013-01-23T23:58:01.469-08:00I've moved to Wordpress<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hi<br />
<br />
I have recently shifted my blog space to Wordpress.<br />
<br />
My new blog page is<br />
<br />
http://harihere.wordpress.com/</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-9126171999627433882012-09-17T00:18:00.000-07:002012-09-18T22:17:21.093-07:00Rain- (Un)Forgotten love<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And there she came.. Disturbing the silence of midnight, sneaking slowly into the gardens, tickling the tree tops, she settled strong with
her Marylin Monroe skirt spread over korea by a radius of 400 km. Sanba is too sweet
a name by Japan Meteorological Agency for a shrewd typhoon like her. Reports
said that she entered our campus by around 2:00 AM when everyone including the
dogs, except taxis was fast asleep. I woke up by the hysteric whistle blowing
through the crevices of my bedroom. Struggling with my sleep laden eyelids, I realized
that samba overtook my alarm by half hour. The following lazy 10 minutes of
sleepless hither thither cuddle within the width of single cot gave better satisfaction
than the full night’s sleep. I finally hatched out of my laziness and lurched
over the cold tiles to refresh myself. I looked at the mirror, sign of ageing
is slowly creeping into the face, and there I stood within the bathroom of an
alien land (yes, they have given me an Alien card), far away from the soil that
hold my roots firm. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I came out to the balcony, infinite nozzles of cold air puckering into the sudden gooseflesh hairs wiped away the residual sleep I was carrying
within. The rain was strong, slender transparent needles descended down causing
small pools of water near the front door. Lost in time, I kept watching,
surrendering myself to the past, remembering the june-july monsoons of
nagercoil, I continued watching. The images of rain I saw just stopped in front
of my eyes and automatically got translated to a different vision of past. I
was the same, though compressed in size to fit the skeleton of an over grown 10
year old boy. Warming my palms over the thick tumbler with half-drunk light
coffee, I was sitting on the cold cement verandah, watching the same
transparent water threads falling down from heavens. Waiting for my dad’s hug,
the damp news paper laid there still unread. I was looking at the clouds with
infinite questions when my sister squeezed close disturbing the tranquil
moments of higher thoughts investigating what lay above those chameleon clouds.
And we fought for the millimeters of space she had invaded into my invisible
territory on the cement verandah. Soon we were bored of the fight and fell
silent, again started to fight on who will take the coffee tumblers back to
kitchen. Dad’s appearance and his bulky spread with the news paper straightened
us; we became timidly silent, then got up and walked slowly with our respective
coffee tumblers to kitchen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The rain will be severe, don’t let the children out”, dad’s
strong voice travelled across crashing our hopes, the hopes of enjoying the
holiday, hopes of renting a bicycle for an hour and the hopes of drenching in
the rain and a secret view of the river, which we were never allowed without an
adult’s accompaniment. Our rainy day, a lazy local holiday for schools to save
the kids from cyclone began with our dad’s departure. I just stayed in the
sofa, gazing outside enjoying the chill breeze brought by the rain. The television
was pleasant, with no sulking from switching channels as we had only one
doordarshan, the black and white Raj kapoor miming for the magnetic voice of
Rafi in R.D.Burman’s music entered the picture tube, the details unknown then,
hardly interested in hindi movies or music, yet watched them without choice. “Why
don’t you do something, why are you wasting time?”, mother’s voice came out of
the kitchen mixing with R.D.Burman. ‘Do something, aint i? am watching TV’, the
response held within the throat, I just switched off the TV and cuddled with a blanket
and children’s magazine. Soon, I lost interest in the magazine and there came
my sister with paper boats. The waste papers were made to better use. Every
time I went out to lay the paper boat, the rain bent and teased me with her swift
sprinkles. She purposely sunk my paper boats, just to draw me out. She might
have been upset with my mom’s hot bajjis as we left her,
ofcourse bajjis can’t last longer and we returned back. By that time,
she was tired of showering and took some rest. We came out, dug channels to let
the clogged water stream out to tributaries; soon our tributaries joined that
of our neighbour’s. By the end of the rainy day, I was always happy with the
cold wind, the mud laid trousers and the hot snacks of mother. The rain was
also very cheerful; I had heard her giggles when she came down, the merriness and joy she is accompanied with.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I watched her again, she hasn’t aged, she is still the
same, and I stood in my balcony longing for a hot cup of tea, R.D.Burman music
and a blanket with no work ahead. Startled at the pace of my watch needles, I quickly
packed to office. She was waiting for me to come out and she wanted to hug me
tight with her wet hands. This time, I avoided her with an umbrella, protecting my formal shirt,
hiding my cellphone and wallet from her, I walked. She might have been upset, I
no more hear her merry laughs, but her moans, a feeble cry within her
forceful typhoon whistle. I walked straight pretending not to hear, testing my
new umbrella against her. She hugged me from behind, may be to hide her tears; I was wet, yet I didn’t look
at her. I carefully watched my steps over the streams, not remembering the childhood
tributaries, not remembering the joy the same streams gave me in splashing
them, I walked straight to my office. As I settled with a hot tea, she kept
banging my windows “what harm did I to you? Why did you stop loving me? “. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the buried love, I continued pretending not to hear her, like most of
the world………</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-53380268099062990132012-09-10T01:23:00.001-07:002012-09-17T00:18:25.340-07:00Wolves ate our goats, but we blame Lions <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I
don’t know whether I hold a view of less popularity when I condemn Aseem’s cartoon
displaying the lions of our emblem as blood thirsty wolves symbolizing the
corrupted politicians. It’s true beyond trial, that the country is drenched in
corruption when we have lost fastidious honest politicians in history. It still
remains a mystery and a topic of debate whether corruption can be uprooted
completely from the country where we start bribing as early as we are born,
with a tip to the nurse for the good news of birth. The answer to the debate
can be understood only in the future, like time answered Swami Vivekananda’s
thoughts of economic liberation to abolish castes or Mahatma Gandhi’s
non-violence for complete ‘Swaraj’ or Martin Luther’s dream of racist free USA,
when they always had critics to advise that their goals are too lofty to
achieve. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;"> There
occurs no second thought on the status quo of nation’s corruption and there is
no refusal to the sincere yearning by every fellow Indian for a corrupt free
state, though they don’t demonstrate austere commitment to the cause. But, the
intensity of the problem is never an excuse to sacrifice the self dignity. The
demonstration, even for a social evil, if done without poise, fails
fundamentally and without purpose. It is sacrificing one ideal to gain another.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;"> Now,
the caricature of the national symbol portraying the Lions as wolves, no doubt
nails the message quite hard: - no doubt about it. The intention is unquestionably
pure to shame the shamming politicians. By fighting against corruption, are we
not fighting for the truth? Are we not fighting for the ‘dharma’? And look at
the tool Aseem has chosen, the national identity symbolizing ‘dharma’ which
quotes ‘Satyameva Jayate’- ‘Truth alone Triumphs’, one of the greatest
philosophical symbols which every Indian needs to be proud of, an iconic
representation to the world that we had always believed in virtuous ideals even
at a time when most part of the world were still in barbaric state. Disrespect
to such a noble emblem for the problem we are still a cause is like killing
ourselves to feed us. In one of the debates in a website on Aseem’s arrest someone
has sarcastically commented “Yes, screw the nation, but protect the emblem”. Unfortunately, emblem has its root so
deepened in the nation and an insult to the emblem is definitely an insult to
the country. If the emblem is not that sacred, why we have one? People may
change and their problems too, but not the ideals of a nation, which is
hardened and synchronized with its identity. How many of us will be comfortable
if Aseem portrays ‘mother India’ as a prostitute to create awareness on the
social problem of prostitution?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;"> What
are we teaching the children? We teach them to be virtuous in kindergarten and
we fail to carry the values, worse we demonstrate and patronize the massacre of
virtues by supporting such open shame of national symbol under the pretext of
noble intention against corruption. And what are we conveying to the people of
the world? We, as a nation have failed to establish a corruption free country,
have poisoned ourselves in corruption and exhibit least constructive actions
against the cause, but try to abuse the holy constitution, holy national symbol
because we wanted to convey a message. Forget corruption for an instant, can
any of us atleast comprehend the message we have conveyed?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11.5pt;"> I
don’t support corruption, like I don’t support other social evils like
reservation or child labour or forced prostitution, and above all I also don’t support
mad irresponsible actions and demonstrations hiding under the sheep skin of
noble cause. </span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-14254140786048142102012-09-03T17:42:00.001-07:002012-09-04T20:35:16.457-07:00alaigal - oru kavidai<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px;">கரைவரும் அலைகளே, கலங்கி நிற்பதேனோ ?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px;">கரைவந்த எந்தன் கால்களை</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px;">கட்டி அணைத்த போதும், மெதுவாய்</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px;">கிச்சுகிச்சு மூட்டிய போதும்,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px;">தெளியாது தவித்தேன்</span><br />
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px;">
கவலை உன்னுடைய தென்னென்று?<br />
முகவரி மறந்து வந்தாயோ?<br />
முகங்கள் தேடி நின்றாயோ?<br />
<br />
உன் நீல உடல் உமிழும்<br />
வெள்ளை வியர்வை நுரையில்<br />
ஒளிந்துள்ள கொள்ளைக் காதல்<br />
இன்னதெனப் புரியவில்லையே !<br />
<br />
வானோர் தம் செவியில் உன்<br />
ஈனச்சுரம் விழவில்லையோ !<br />
இறைவா,<br />
உன்னவள் மடியில்புழுவென இழையும்<br />
அலைகளின் குறைகள் நீ அறிகிலையோ !<br />
ஒருக்கால்,<br />
விழ விழ, தளராது எழும்<br />
அலைகளின் பண்பை, உலகம் உணர<br />
இறையும் செவிடன் ஆனானோ?</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-75014077560588909662012-08-06T05:57:00.001-07:002012-08-06T05:57:24.072-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px;">விதவை</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px;">விதையாய் விழுந்து,</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px;">மண்ணில் வேரூன்றி</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px;">தளிர்த்து</span><br />
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 13.600000381469727px;">
மலர்ந்து<br />காய்த்து<br />கனியும் முன்பு<br />கொய்தெறிந்த கொடுமை</div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-74146779339504785702012-07-27T20:23:00.001-07:002013-01-24T18:35:59.141-08:00First salary- a short story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 20pt; line-height: 115%;">First salary<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 20pt; line-height: 115%;">-</span><i><span style="font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">A short story -<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It was a fine Friday evening; the
bare earth cooked in july rain spread its fragrance fresh into the humid air
and diffuse itself with the aroma of fried ‘pakoda’ in almost all the snack
stalls overlooking the gutter of the narrow street. Sun had already set when
Gopal crossed the street, took a right turn and hurried to reach his apartment.
All the way home from office, he was unusually swift, unmindful of the mud
splashing over his trousers punishing his old, torn and mended shoes. Chennai
is not the right city for rain, it just gives away; the conglomeration of rotten
vegetables, mud, gutter, overflowing drainage, mosquitoes, filth, flooded
slums, epidemics, quite a nightmare month for the corporation officials. Few
suffer, and many enjoy the rain. Gopal almost slipped near the market stamping
upon the rotten tomatoes and plantain leaves. Unmindful of the difficulties, he
rushed home. As he ascended the stairs, his heart beat rose, he noticed the
pathetic condition of his shoes when he removed it, thought that he should buy
a new set, but immediately postponed the idea ‘it can go for two more months, I
shall buy after rainy season’. Before he dwelled further on the thoughts, he
was joined by his parents and sister beckoning him inside. The joy of the cute
small family was ineffable, for it was the first salary day of Gopal and it
definitely deserved the joy and celebration joined by the heavy rain outside. The
celebration included a special sweet from Kaveri (Gopal’s mother) and an
additional hour of prayer in front of the deities for his long life and health.
Gopal washed his hands, changed to ‘dhoti’, prostrated before the gods caged in
wooden frames and then before his late grandparents adoring the weathering
plaster of the wall in a black and white portrait and finally before his
parents. All the while, he was feverishly holding his salary slip, a mark of
achievement, an entry to take the baton later from his father in a never ending
relay race. Kaveri looked at her son with delight, a series of past events
since his birth ran before her eyes and she prayed god again with closed eyes
for the everlasting happiness. Subramoniam, quite accustomed to his accountant
profession for the past three decades, adjusted his rims and carefully went
through the numbers of his salary slip “they haven’t mentioned the P.F account
no. in the slip”, Gayathri interrupted with two bowls of sweet prepared by
Kaveri, “Appa, you carry out your research with the salary slip later. I can’t
stand the sight of kesari (sweet) anymore, common Gopal, this is for you”. The
room filled with laughter and the china clay bowls reserved for VIP guests and
special occasions went into the sink after repeated fillings. Gayathri took a
spoon and started scratching the edges of the vessel for the left over kesari. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When
all of them assembled in the hall, with joy choking their words, Subramoniam
said, “I still remember my first salary, Rs.400 in an envelope. I never took my
hands out of the envelope fearing pick pockets till I reached home. It was
quite a ceremony then. Ah! I forgot something” , he took a parcel with a cheap
polythene wrapper excavating his office bag, which is a safe deposit of almost
everything from stationeries to medicine, few marriage invitation cards etc . “This book on investments is a must read for
anyone before his first salary; no one gave me such advices. I learnt it
myself. But the author..”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh!
Common, why do you want to bother my son on the very first day? You are anyway
there to guide him in these matters and cant you spare him to enjoy now?”,
Kaveri intervened Subramoni. Gopal received the book with great respect, like
he respected his father, whom he believed knows everything about life, culture,
savings and investments. When Subramoniam started his career thirty years back,
all he had was a single salary, aged parents, two unmarried sisters and a huge
debt due to his five married sisters. From those humble beginnings, he had
fought his way out and now proudly owns a single bedroom apartment, one of his
life time dream and achievement. However meager his economic achievements may
be, to Gopal, his father is better than Bill Gates or Warren Buffet. He would
like to continue his father’s legacy of planned living with frugality and
contentment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We should not touch his salary except for the repayment of
his education loan, we should save everything. Bhgavathy mami has taken a gold
chit in G.R.T Jewelers. I went through the brochure; it’s a monthly chit of two
thousand rupees and lot of benefits. Similarly, opposite house Sridhar family
regularly invests in ‘Shriram chits’. They say that we will get 2 lakhs in two
years for a payment of approximately 1.6 lakhs. Both will be useful for
Gayathri’s marriage. What about a plot near Guduvanchery? Can you ask our
friends for suggestions? Your salary is hardly sufficient for home loan and
other expenses. Ah ! I forgot, I have to send Rs.101/- money order to ‘namakkal
anjaneyar’ temple tomorrow”, Kaveri spoke uninterruptedly with excitement.
During dinner, she submitted another proposal of finishing the home loan
supplementing Gopal’s salary and then start savings after a year. She had her
fifth revision of financial plan for Gopal’s salary when they went to bed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sunday morning it was Krishnamurthy at the bell.
“Namaskaram, I was expecting you, Kaveri, two coffees“, Subramoniam welcomed him in. Krishnamurthy, an LIC (insurance)
agent lived in the same apartment and is known to Subramoniam’s family for
quite some time. “You may know Krishna; Gopal has started earning, so I thought
its time to take an insurance policy for him. We need to guide him for savings,
for till last year he only knew about school and studies”. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes,
yes , the right decision, I would say. How many children are blessed with a
father like you ?? !”, Krishnamurthy continued after a small pause, “These
days, youngsters get lot of salary, their parents don’t care what they do with
that and they spend every penny in movies, bikes and other unnecessary
luxuries. They realize their mistakes often late in their life. Subramoni, you
are doing a wise thing and I should congratulate you for an astute son like
Gopal who listens to his parents. Obedient kids are rare these days, you know”,
Krisnamurthy smiled and pleased Gopal, his client and Subramoni, his client’s
controller both simultaneously. He knows his ways of business and his skills
are anything but talking, but he survived and met his ends in this insurance
agent commission. Kaveri’s filter coffee diverted Krishnamurthy’s conversation
to her “Kaveri amma, its as if yesterday Gopal was playing cricket in his
shorts and today he’s a big man and I’m only his humble servant”. Kaveri was
definitely flabbergasted at this dialogue, which he might have recited 1000
times to his new young clients, with the same emotion and not once did it fail
to make an impact. A visibly pleased Kaveri, proud of her son, offered an
additional plate of snacks and told “Please, advise him properly, he’s but just
a boy”. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you
need to tell this to me amma? You know me very well. I don’t do this as a
business. I do this as a service. To me, the welfare of my clients is the first
priority. I would say its only god’s mercy that whoever took a policy with me
prosper very soon in front of my own eyes; you know the Saravanan of Canara
bank isn’t? He took a policy and within three years he bought a new house. I’m
a staunch devotee of goddess Lakshmi and I pray everyday for my clients in
front of the deity. Don’t worry Gopal has a bright future. His face says that
he is a blessed one”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is
Krishnamurthy’s trademark dialogue and everyone including Kaveri at the present
moment bought his spiritual sincerity for his clients. Never once anyone
bothered to think why the goddess who has granted everything to krishnamurthy’s
clients hasn’t given him anything but to own an old bicycle. Sure, he has an
explanation, but no one has asked him and he never had an opportunity to unveil
the mystery. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Subramoni, a man of details justified his accountant
profession by scrupulously going through all the policy details, their
benefits, bonus, minimum guaranteed returns, risk analysis and other details. By
the end of coffee, he filtered three policies and discussed the technical
nuances with Krishnamoorthy to choose one. Gopal was in wonder watching his
father effortlessly analyzing the financial aspects of a policy and made a
mental note that he too will learn those soon and keep up his father’s hard
work. Its true that some of his father’s friends call subramoni an idiot hard
worker, who with but professional smartness could’ve gained much more than his
cocoon single bedroom apartment. However dumb a man is, he is always the first
hero of his son and any son’s first ambition is to grow up like his father.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gopal
was asked to sign the papers by sitting cross- legged in front of the deities;
of course Kaveri, an adept in hindu customs, believes in ‘holy time’ for any
activity had already checked the calendar and ensured that the time is marked
suitable for such positive endeavours. With every signature, Gopal felt
important and after a few signatures on the aged yellowed policy form, Gopal
became the owner of an insurance policy, like the infinite paranoids swarming
around. The weekend passed gleefully with more varieties of plans on savings,
deposits and Gayathri’s marriage.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
only purchase Gopal made with his first month salary was a new lunch bag, which
is now hanging along with Gopal in the morning electric train. As the train
crossed ‘St.Thomas Mount’, he hardly had a space to stand, yet he noticed an
advertisement outside about some gold chit between the cracks of human
crowd and made a mental note to tell his mother that night, which would only
complicate her calculations. After the usual morning struggle, tactfully
escaping the mud splash from dashing auto rickshaws, filth flying from the
brooms of corporation workers, smoke vomited by the city buses, he finally
settled down in his cubicle allowing the air-condition to adsorb his sweat into
the humid air when a senior colleague
Kumar stopped by. Kumar has been nice to Gopal since his joining. Kumar, having
begun his life from humble background like Gopal, felt a responsibility to take
care of the new kid and Gopal too has a great respect for him. There is nothing
like having a partner with mutual respect and trust in a corporate environment,
filled with ugly politics and opportunities to pull each other down out of
impetus to camouflage their insecurity. Such gentle relations make the
beautiful looking decorated corporate hell a family and this is one such small
family who caught up on a Monday morning empathizing the
raindrop tears trickling down the weeping windows *.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“So, Gopal, did you had a party over first salary?
Is everyone happy at home?”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Oh yes sir, we had loads of fun”,
Gopal was referring his extra cup of sweet and his insurance policy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Hmm good to hear that, Money is
always good, but that always comes with a responsibility, spend wisely kid”,
despite being conscious that advices are detested, people never stop advising
even on trivial things.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Gopal smiled understandingly and
with lot of vanity explained his financial debut of insurance policy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Whatt ?? You took an insurance
policy ?? “</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Yes sir, Krishnamurthy mama told
that in 10 years we will get double the money and my father is not a novice to
be convinced on financial terms, he chose the right policy and I am glad that
I’ve taken the best investment option in my first salary.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“You could‘ve discussed with me.
Which century are you living in? Insurance policies are not investment tools
and young men like you shall not depend on conventional instruments like
policies and fixed deposits. Your growth will be much faster than your money
ever does. There are stock market and mutual funds to take advantage of the
growing economy. ‘You should not work for money, your money should work for
you’”, Kumar ended his sagely advise with a quote from ‘Rich Dad Poor Dad’, which
a beginner believes a technical bible for financial investments.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“But shares and all are too much
for me, I’m not into such gambling…”, before he finished Kumar snapped him
shut, “What a fool are you Gopal !! “ and the next one hour Gopal got a free
lesson from Kumar on the investments and equity market. Gopal was mesmerized by
Kumar’s eloquence in equity market, thrilled by his home page of ICICI Direct,
trading shares on a daily basis, and Gopal didn’t fail to acknowledge
uncomfortably that there are many things in personal finance which are beyond
the reach of his father. That evening was a difficult evening for Gopal at
home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
At dinner Gopal opened, “Appa,
Kumar sir was talking to me today, he advised me to invest in equity shares and
mutual funds”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“What?? Lets not get into gambling
of hard earned money, its not for us”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Well, even Gopal responded the same
to Kumar that day morning and Gopal was then confident to convince his father,
fresh from the tons of advice and case studies from Kumar. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No appa, its not gambling, it’s
only a calculated risk, Kumar sir taught me how to read economic times,
understand indicators, of course it’s difficult, but he guides well.. you know,
I was stunned when he showed how to transact shares and.. “, as Gopal
continued, Subramoni’s face shadowed gloomily, Kaveri recognized it in time to
interrupt, “Gopal, we will discuss later, now eat before the curry gets cold”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When did a son took his mother’s
cue !!!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Gopal continued, “No amma, even a
pessimistic estimate of mutual funds is approximately 15% returns, which he
says double than most fixed deposits”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Subramoni this time got really
irritated, “Gopal, you have just started earning, trust the experience of the
elders, the money gambling is not good for our family”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No appa, am not talking about day
trading, which may be called as gambling, we shall invest in the top 30
companies and in long term will pay lot of returns”, Subramoni completely
uncomfortable stopped him “Gopal, we should try to create something ourselves,
on our own, from the very money we earned hard, however tiny the value of the
penny is!. There lies a satisfaction of building it our own, free from the
curse of numerous people who lost their money in that stupid game. However
humble the achievement of mine may be, it’s self made and not riding on the
success of few business men. Equity shares are like cheap game, paying money
for someone whom you don’t even know and relies on his business acumen;
celebrate when the market booms believing that you have made the right choice
and lament when the market collapses, I don’t want you to get into that
nonsense”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
This time it was Gopal’s turn,
especially then he had a reply for the same from Kumar, “Appa, even our fixed
deposit is actually similar to that of shares. In fixed deposits, we give the
money to government, who in turn loan it to other business men and
agriculturists and the interest accumulated in nothing but the profits earned
from those business ventures which we have invested with government banks as
mediator. In this case, we analyze and invest directly into the right
companies. It’s more like fixed deposit in particular companies with dynamic
interest.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Gopal lurched out exact words Kumar
shared with him that day. Even Kaveri was astonished with Gopal’s instantaneous
financial intelligence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Gopal continued “Appa, there is a
fidelity mutual fund NFO closing this Friday. Kumar sir recommends…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Rascal, its one day since you
touched money and you have started advicing me, do you know the hardships I had
gone through? Do you ever respect your father’s experience and wisdom? Go get
lost, you want to believe in some idiot Kumar, who may be as novice as you”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Even Subramoni was bit shocked
later at his sudden outburst. It was not the subject or the content of
conversation, but a feeling that the young lad, whom he had carefully adorned
within his protective wings so far, have started to act smart under the advice
of someone who is outside the family. He felt betrayed that his son decided to
chose Kumar’s words over his one. Often and mostly always, a father’s anger has
no rationale on the subject, but only such soft emotions troubles them. They
feel out of place, odd, small, dejected at the thought of negligence,
realization that their sons have grown up suddenly ahead of them and guilty in
their failure to recognize their son’s ability.
But the sons, too young to acknowledge these sentiments, on the other
hand feel disdained by their own father even for their true, good intended
requests. It’s the poor mother of the family who gets caught in such trauma
sharing both her shoulders to these two grown up kids, for both the father and
son needs her to truly open up and yet she cannot divulge the truth to either,
for it affects the balance of the relation. No one except a woman in the family
can handle such trauma and all the male chauvinists of the world should think about
the shoulders they relied on before they contemptuously bark at the faintest
appeals of feminists. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Kaveri was surprised at the
unanticipated tumult which arose out of noble intentions from two responsible
pillars of the family; she didn’t speak much till night,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Kaveri, I know how upset you might
be, even I was, but think about this, within one day where did he get the guts
to speak against the elders. I was sad whether I failed to teach him
discipline, have I missed to teach him manners? Today I felt disastrous
and an utter failure, failed to mould a son’s character, believed his innocence
ruthlessly…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“No, please don’t hold such deep
sentiments, I don’t think he criticized you or opposed you. He was just
attracted to the new information he got and even when he told you, he wanted to
consult your opinion. But your outburst just wounded him. Who knows what
thoughts the poor boy was having? You could have patiently explained. Even I
was sad the way you treated him. I know him more than anyone and I swear his
innocence. I’m worried how he feels now. Do you know that you haven’t
scolded him for the past two years”, no one can beat a woman in chronological
memory and cross referencing at the right moment. Even at this moment of
despair, Kaveri did not fail to mention when and where Subramoni had shouted at
Gopal and how she felt insulted when he had shouted at him in front of her
cousin. Subramoni, like all the short tempered men, yielded quicker than wax
“kaveri, go and have a word with him, give him some milk, let him sleep
properly”, no father ever had the guts to apologize to his son and it’s in a
way, good, for every son respects his father even for their mistakes and the
equilibrium of relation gets affected with such transparency in attitude. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Kaveri went to her next job, to
attend Gopal, who was silently weeping then. He had been rehearsing the evening
dialogue several times and failed to reconcile his father’s outburst. Kaveri
went to him and her maternal fragrance was just what he needed to wipe his
tears, “Gopal, shame on adults to cry.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“You know amma, I came with lot of
anticipation that appa will appreciate my efforts. I really respect Kumar sir.
He wants me to succeed and gives me good advice. I didn’t want to let go of an
opportunity due to our ignorance. Was I disrespectful to him? Why does he feel
insulted? Didn’t I come to him for his approval, after all, am anxious of
Gayathri’s marriage expenses and our home loan”, Gopals words melted with his
sorrow, expression unclear from the jutting tears and all Kaveri had to do was
patiently comb his hairs and the miraculous strokes soothed Gopal, a
satisfaction that all is not lost and the assurance that here she is for me,
the one who lives for me, the one who is more desperate than me for my success.
She offered him a glass of milk, “Gopal, who shouted at you? its your father
only isn’t. Believe me, he is the noble
soul who cares for you than anyone in the world, he’s afraid that his son
shouldn’t take even a single wrong step. Do you think he had doubts in your
intention? I know him more than anyone do and I can promise that he trusts you.
You have to respect his experience and he may not be able to explain several
things as you are too young to comprehend, but he is always worried about you.
Kumar may be a nice man, I doubt not, and even your father doesn’t disapprove
of his friendship, he might only be worried that personal finances should be
not be influenced by others”,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“but
amma..”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Listen Gopal, am not questioning you, you may be right, I
think father will understand that soon. Now be a good boy, the noble soul of
your father is troubled at your rash behavior of talking against him. Go and
apologize.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gopal was not reluctant to get up and apologize, for he is
more troubled and guilty that he had disturbed the peace and felt sorry that he
had spoken against his loving father. He went to him, stopped near the bedroom,
“appa, sorry, I didn’t intend to upset you”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, don’t weep now, be a good boy and sleep well, we will
talk all these later. Go to the deity and smear the sacred ash on your fore
head to get a good sleep”, actually Subramoni needed a good sleep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day, Gopal got up and everything was normal, kitchen
spread noise and flavor of kaveri’s daily fight with vegetables and spices,
Subramoni finishing his newspaper and Gayathri getting ready for her college,
running around looking for lost hair pins, missing assignment notebook and cursing
that student life is the worst only to realize later that it was the heaven
unrecognized. That’s the beauty of the family, the hatred, discomfort or any
negative feelings just get wiped away in the first tide. Everything was normal,
no sign of previous day’s sentiments except that both Gopal and Subramoni vowed
internally to correct them. And that’s why friends are there, to tell you what
exactly to do then. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Subramoni
reached his office and read “IF” poem of Kipling, a habit he imbibed under
difficult situations, much helpful at the time of annual appraisals. His friend
came in “What Subramoni, looks tensed?”. Subramoni was waiting for this, and he
just vomited the previous days incident.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Ha, you are a stupid Subramoni, I
think you should have appreciated your son’s responsibility. How quick are kids
these days. I promise you know nothing of share markets. Encourage him to do some
mutual funds, its harmless. If you are anxious, advise him to invest less and
understand the economics. The fundamental thing in equity is you need to invest
both money and time for it. You cannot sit in office and wait for an external
enlightenment. Just stop behaving like an old brat and go get him that fidelity
mutual fund. Gopal seems wise, I wish we too were like him when we were young,
we could have made more”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The response was crisp and short,
but it pained Subramoni’s self-ego. He once again went through the ‘IF’ poem.
He was still not satisfied. He then went through some websites, read dummies
for mutual funds, though not convinced, decided to trust his son’s wisdom and
was simultaneously afraid in doing so. Finally, he gave up and downloaded the
NFO form of fidelity mutual fund and filled his son’s details. He came home
early and placed the filled form within an envelope in front of the puja shelf,
hoping to give Gopal a pleasant surprise.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That evening, when Gopal went to Puja shelf to place an
envelope he brought, he was surprised to see another envelope. He opened the
envelope and saw the NFO form filled on his name by his father except the
signature. He smiled and kept another envelope which had a form filled on his
father’s name for a fixed deposit in Indian bank.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*- “raindrop tears trickling down the weeping windows “ based
on the inspiration from Mrs.UshaSoman’s poem, “weeping buildings”, <a href="http://ushasoman.blogspot.kr/2008/11/weeping-buildings.html">http://ushasoman.blogspot.kr/2008/11/weeping-buildings.html</a></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-721714245823513782012-07-24T21:55:00.001-07:002012-07-24T21:55:17.922-07:00குழந்தையின் புன்னகை<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">குழந்தையின் புன்னகை</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">கற்று சிறந்தோறும், கல்லா சிறியோரும்</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">பண்பில் பழுதோறும் பண்பற்ற மூடரும்</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">கள்ளமில் குழந்தாய்</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">நுண் குறுமுகம் நிறைந்து</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">மென்மையினும் மென்மை அதரம் விரித்து</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">ஒற்றைப் பல்லுடைப் பொக்கை வாயில்</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">ஒட்டியிருக்கும் மழலை புன்னகை காணின்</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">நா தீண்டிய சர்க்கரை பாகாய் உள்ளம் நெகிழ்வாரே</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">இறைவா வேண்டுமே கண்டிப்பாய் இன்னும் ஒரு பிறவி</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">உன்னினும் இனிய குளவி பருவம் வேண்டி</span>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-8419388104054141672012-07-15T18:15:00.001-07:002012-07-15T18:15:56.966-07:00abstract thoughts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 17.600000381469727px;">The mark of maturity is the geriatric gestation of going back to childish innocence. So the big question is, are we wasting our life just to go back where we started? Well, the answer is as simple as the question. Innocence of the child is inherited, but that of matured is achieved. The importance of what you have, whether innocence or wealth will be understood only when you earn it and not when you inherit. It is true that we grow, mature and realize that we haven’t found anything new. But it requires tremendous amount of effort and sacrifice to understand what we already know.</span>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-39608692391478562132012-04-30T20:46:00.002-07:002012-07-28T23:54:18.397-07:00Disco- the first sin<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div align="center" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span class="apple-converted-space"><b><u><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 18pt;">Disco- the first sin<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">It
was his first time and was excited about it. Any first time activity, from our birth till our last breath, entrusts us with a store of excitement.
The excitement masks itself in different forms, happiness, fear, etc and the
mask changes based on the activity and the individual’s values. He couldn’t
decide which mask of excitement had engulfed him that day, his first time to a
disco club. A contemptuous frown concentrated between his eyebrows at the
thought of alcohol and smoke around him in disco club. A fear chilled his spine at
the imagination of encountering any of his or dad’s friends. What would he
answer if they ask “hey Mohan, what are you doing here?”</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"> <span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">He had
watched movies and had thought about disco as a cultural flaw, an exhibition of
human weakness, an act of taking a step back in the hard earned civilization.
Yet, he was waiting for the sun to sleep and hoping all others he knew to sleep
along with the sun, leaving a set of alien anonymous crowd who don’t bother
about him and themselves when they plunge together into the abyss of disco.
Despite his efforts, he never could rationally analyze what’s so wrong with
disco clubs. It's just an opaque rigid wall in the mind, which stops all the
logical thoughts to a heavy halt in hearing the name ‘disco’ and turn back to
say ‘No, it's wrong’; like it said ‘no’ for smoking and alcohols. Nobody has
ever told what the cultural issue with smoking and alcohol is. No, it’s not due
to health. There are several products which are not good for health, starting
from the adulterated cheese to bread, chips, fruit beverages and what not? But
they were not banished by the cultural purists. Yet, smoking and alcohols were
banned with a ‘No’ label long back, long before they understood the effects of
nicotin and even before they found nicotin in tobacco. They are essentially the
symbols of man’s weakness for pleasure, a weakness which openly challenges the
spiritual advancement of human beings to oneness, which is often referred as god.
Disco clubs enjoys similar and even worse treatment when compared to other
weaknesses; as it provides almost everything that are advised to be kept at a
distance.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">
So, it is natural for anyone like Mohan, born and brought up in a culturally
conservative family to close his eyes and ears, and more importantly mind from
several things in the society, with disco among the top few things. The present
world would be a heaven if everyone follows what is known to them or taught to
them as right. No mind is tougher than its weak moment and it gives up under
pressure to pleasure, only to lament later 'Why I did that?'. Such weak moments
are unfortunately not rare and occur every day, like we break our diet
resolutions the moment we encounter a bakery. However, few weak moments are
stronger and wilder like the big tides washing away the sand homes of faith
built ashore. Mohan was sucked in one such weak moment, which took him for a
toss in its whirlpool. How else could he have agreed to Philip when he persuaded
to join him to a disco? The beauty of the weak moment is that they are
momentary, yet it pushes us into a world of illusion or curse that we realize
it only after our action, however long it may take. Philip brooded over the
idea of disco in the first half of the day. But Mohan didn’t think whether it
is right or wrong according to his moral values, until he came out of the disco
that night. The only thought that had occupied his mind was 'Disco, Disco!!'
and he was desperately waiting for the evening during the first hour in the
class room. Our mother earth started teasing him by revolving slowly; it seemed
a second was longer than a second and it appeared as if it took several hours
to cover one hour in clock. As the dusk passed, when sodium vapour lamps
compensated the daylight, Mohan was doubly excited about the approaching
significant event in his life. He walked out of the gent's room after a clean
shave, dissatisfied, he shaved again. He was generous with the after shave
lotion to ensure that he gains a dashing shiny chin as they show in
commercials. He wore his favourite light blue shirt and a matching
‘John-Miller’ navy-blue trouser. The only leather shoes of his underwent a
double coat of polishes and sparkled when his friend's shine-x was lavishly
applied. When a thin film of 'cuticura' talc was gently spread over his coarse
face and armpits, Mohan, satisfied with his rituals took extra care not to
sweat and started fanning himself with whatever he got. But his tension was so
fierce that his body fluids fought their way through his skin pores and his
hanky was half wet. Philip entered his room, “Mohan, what happened? Are you not
coming for disco?”.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">“No,
i'm ready, i am waiting for you.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">“what?”</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">He
couldn't appreciate his genuine shock till he entered disco.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">“we
are not going for a job interview”, frowned Philip and redecorated Mohan with
his party wear gadgets. Philip swayed a jet of deodorant confined in a
container labelled 'adidas' and exclaimed “Mohan, you still use talcum powder
?”. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">"There's
a lot of restriction for disco clubs these days", Philip explained,
"so much debate going on about its impact on culture etc. I don't
understand these lunatics. Disco is about smoking, drinking and dancing with
women. This was there always. During historic days, only royal court and rich
men had this luxury and they employed women slaves for dancing. These days, we
have broken the aristocratic supremacy and have liberated the privileges for
common man. Above that, instead of having slave women, we have given freedom
for equal rights to women. <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Liberty</st1:city></st1:place>,
equality and freedom- isn't quite a revolution?. The thick heads never
understand that." He didn't refer to me, but i know with utmost clarity
that i belong to that group of thickheads preventing a silent revolution
progressing without daylight and I felt responsible to undo it. My first step
was self-liberation through participation. I walked in with confidence.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">“The
premium discos , which are often a part of 5 star hotels allow only pairs and
costs very much. This one is suitable for college students like us; the entry
fee is only Rs.500. You know what, they give two complimentary pints too and
yours is for me, since you don't booze. I don't force people to booze; that's
against my policy”, the good Samaritan Philip continued “I have brought lots of
first-timers to disco. I keep a count and you are 63rd”.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">Both
of them entered the dark room, equipped to explode with deafening music. The
loudest music Mohan have ever witnessed was during the annual temple function
in his village where the loud speakers supposedly communicate to anyone within
half a mile. This volume was at least ten times more than those loud speakers
of his village. The whole body of everyone within it was vibrating ; one can
easily dance without much effort. The dark room was filled with clouds of
cigarette smoke, too strong to choke the lungs of a non-smoker like Mohan.
There were tables arranged in two rows, all of them round in shape encircled
with slim chairs for one quadrant and a crescent shaped cushion chair for two
quadrants. The central pathway which branched into blossoms of round tables at
its sides was dashingly lit with multi-coloured twinkling lights. The strange
combination of dazzling bright path and its dark peripherals was strange, yet
synchronized well with our cosmic and philosophical model that light and
darkness co-exist within a same bubble.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">Mohan
and Philip merged with the darkness in one of the corner tables. “This is the
best place, you can have a view of entire dancing floor from here”, when Philip
noted, Mohan was awe stuck by Philip's knowledge on minor details. The pints
arrived and Philip's broad smile consumed his large square face. As the bottles
became lighter by losing alcohol, so did Philip by consuming the same. The
divine liquid ceaselessly went inside Philip, however Mohan's interests was not
even faintly linked with alcohol. He came there to experience the fantasy world
filled with glamorous women, which, to him had always existed only behind the
silver screen. He was impatient when the bar was still occupied by him, Philip
and their empty bottles. As the clock stuck eleven, two men came inside, and
soon more men stuffed in the dark room. More bottles moved in the thick smoke
blanket. With time, the fluid had its magic effect and people started dancing.
Still the bar was packed with men. Mohan grew impatient and turned to Philip,
“are you sure you have brought me to disco, this looks like a gay club”. Philip
laughed as if it was a great joke , nodded his head and turned to the waiter to
order one more round of whisky.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">It
was one hour since they came and Mohan finished two plates of excessively
salted peanuts, a diet Pepsi and five glasses of water with ice. It was very
difficult to pass time. Mohan was disappointed to see more and more men around;
ugly, dark men with protruded belly filled with chilled beer, stone faced men
devoid of any emotions except contempt and men who are disappointed without any
women around. Mohan was trapped within a dark cell of men and was genuinely
irritated with Philip for bringing him there. But, Philip was peaceful with his
bottles and its fluids. His tranquility at that moment amidst the loudest music
and ugly men amazed Mohan.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">
At around 11:55 PM, when Mohan went for his eighth round of plain water, a jet
of fresh air gushed in near the door as it was ajar. The fresh air sneaked
through the doors had its lung full of thick perfume announcing the arrival of
much awaited womenfolk. A gang of four ladies paraded into the dark sanctum
where mortals transform to divinity by consuming elixir. One of them wore a
black tight t-shirt and a mini-skirt, the black colour merged with the darkness
of the chamber. All of them were in high pointed heels creating an illusion of
floating in the smoky cloud like angels. Despite their knowing that they are
being watched by lustful eyes, they carried themselves a casual charisma
expressing their indifference to the rest.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">
Ignoring Mohan's exposure to virtual silver screens, that was the first time he
saw ladies smoking and drinking. The bartender whose cold stare intensified
with his glasses of cold water showed a reverse trend with those ladies, for he
conversed with animation, laughed easily and suggested new cocktails to those
Barbie dolls in flesh and blood. Their presence had altered the equilibrium of
the bar, with people entering the dance floor portraying their clown-like dance
moves. Soon, very soon the sex-ratio got altered when few more women entered
the bar. The alcohol loosened their stiffness and they soon decorated the dance
floor. Their dance moves, though incoherent like the other men around, had an
attraction and grace. With their dance moves, they drove away the laziness
which had still then stuck with the people around like mosses on wet rocks.
Along with, they also drove away the contempt and irritation of landing up
there, especially a girl in a sleeveless yellow tops and black jeans attracted
lot of people's attention.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">
Mohan's eyes were glued to the dance floor, trying to absorb as much for future
memories. He was too shy to go there and kept looking at how easily others
approached the ladies, bought them drinks and took them for a dance. When he
went to toilet, he accidentally bumped over the yellow topped beauty pumping
his adrenalin in full power. In the next ten minutes, he visited the toilet
several times placing himself in strategic locations for potential accidents,
though nothing happened after that.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">
When Philip called Mohan for the dance floor, he was excited; excited that his
fantasies were finally coming true. Even amidst the mixed emotions, he didn't
fail to thank Philip for bringing him there. Philip dragged him to the centre
of the dance floor and started dancing. But Philip didn't pick any of those
girls, didn't even go near them, worse than that, he didn't allow either Mohan
to go near them. He started teaching Mohan how to dance. Though Mohan didn't
appreciate the idea of dancing away from the crowd, with lot of ladies behind,
he didn't want to disappoint Philip and complied to Philip and his movements.
But he went on and on and Mohan whispered, “we shall go near the girls”. He
frowned, “common Mohan, we are not here for them. We will dance”.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">“What?
Dance?, well , if we need to dance, we can do it in our hostel, I need not come
here to learn dancing”, shouted Mohan overcoming the screaming DJ's
music. Philip started laughing at his desperation, at his weakness; when
Mohan left him with irritation. He then marched to the dance floor and started
dancing with fierce random body movements in front of a girl. She smiled and
moved away to another guy, who bent and whispered something into her ears
before they settled to a corner. He then went to the next lady; but she was
already dancing with a guy. He stood near them and danced for a while.
Receiving no attention, he went to the next girl. He imagined that Philip would
be laughing at his actions, but he was angry at him and didn't care to look
towards his side. The girls, old & young, dark & fair, slim & plump
were there in plenty, yet no one paid any attention to Mohan. As time passed
by, the men around formed couples and started leaving slowly; Mohan became
inert to the lack of attention he received.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">He
went to the bartender, asked for a glass of plain water with ice and came back
to Philip's table. Philip's eyes were closed, and his face bore a divine
serenity. His sweat spread over his face and glistened in the tiny flame of a
lighter in the next table. They left the bar soon. When they came out, one of
the couples they saw inside was returning. Mohan , visibly upset told Philip
that he couldn't impress even a single girl. Philip turned calmly, exhaled the
puff his lungs had temporarily borrowed from his cigarette and said, "You
know Mohan, not a single girl turned here today is worth pursuing. All of them
are hookers".</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">"What????"</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">"Who
else do you think will come to such disco clubs? most of the clubs allow only
couples, and real couples will go only there. Only hookers come here to win their
customers."</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">"you
mean, those girls with red tops, black tops , the fat girl- all of them ???
"</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">"Well,
let me not disappoint you . Very few of them are not. Few college girls who
can't afford their alcohol also come here. But the whole of today's crowd belong
to the first category and they got their customers easily."</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">Suddenly,
Mohan felt it so disgusting. It dawned to him that no wonder discos are
considered bad. It's a gateway to decadence of our own moral values. The guild
feeling of voluntarily jumping into abyss churned his stomach and he started
sweating profusely.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">"You
brought me to prostitutes", Mohan's words were sharp with frustration.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">Finishing
his last puff, Philip replied casually "Not exactly, I brought you to disco,
where they too come". His smile was intense and to Mohan, he appeared so
ugly like a satan who dragged him into the quicksand of evil. Mohan's pace
slowed with shock.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">The
night was troublesome. He couldn’t sleep well, his heart was burning
constantly; two bottles of cold water was gulped in feverishly. Despite his
mental restlessness, he was too tired and after a struggle between his mind and
body, he somehow slept. But he couldn’t sleep well, his dreams haunted him
teasing for his loss of morals by walking into the disco. He woke up startled ,
wept for a while and then slept again. The cultural shock he was subjected to
was too intense for his gentle mind to handle.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">He
wept for the whole sunday, even skipped the fried rice, the only worthy food of
the hostel. But, one day was too long for any information to pass through the
transparent ears of his hostel mates and by sunday evening his adventure was
known to all.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">As
he entered his classroom monday morning, Anand, Gokul, Abhijit, yusuf and
many other greeted, "hey Mohan, welcome to our disco group". But the
bolt from the blue was when Raghavendra, the pious, gentle and topper of the
class told him "next week, you come to my area, that’s better."</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">Mohan
was surprised and angry; surprised to know that there are actually so many
regulars and angry that no one ever told him. He just smiled and avoided the
crowd. That night's sleep was again disturbing; his dream was about a debate
between two Mohans arguing the positives and negatives of disco. Unlike the
previous night, the new Mohan of his dream was justifying disco with new
vigour. Next day, he went to Ragavendra, "isn't wrong?”</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">Ragavendra
smiled, "Mohan, there's no absolute right or wrong. Every moral rule is
defined by the standards of the then society. Our society has changed greatly
and the rules you define are outdated. If you think this is wrong, then
quitting dhoti to trousers, quitting 'paatshaala' to colleges and every similar
occurrence is wrong. Don't confuse yourself. The only rule is the purity
of your heart. "</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">Mohan
felt refreshed in the new age philosophy casually conceived by Ragavendra. Yet,
he was still confused. Wednesday, he met Gokul who said, "If one day visit
to disco can spoil you, then your mind is perverted and is already impure
whether you go there or not." Mohan couldn’t accept the new accusation of
perverted mind and started to yield slowly. By Thursday, he was able to justify
that what he did was not a crime and there is nothing wrong in mere going to a disco.
In fact, people who had never been to one, allowed lavish imaginations and
unnecessarily spread irrelevant moral policing.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">Seven
days passed since then when Mohan stood before Anup's room, "Anup, can you
spare your adidas shoes tonight?"</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">"No
prob dude, by the way, where are you going?"</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">Mohan
was quick to reply without hesitation, "To disco, with Philip".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;">P.S: I was inspired to write this on the basis
that anyone who plunges himself into practices or habits which he/ she considers unacceptable, undergoes a tumult based on the original values. However, once a weakness is exposed,
the person and his environment encourage him/her to continue and often justify
the new habit. Slowly the habit just sticks.. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-73840128840165401082012-04-28T20:25:00.002-07:002012-04-28T20:25:03.690-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">A nice argument from a journal paper on forensic dentistry</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">“The first reported crime in the history of mankind was solved when bite marks were discovered in the remains of the forbidden fruits in the garden of Eden, and identified as those of Adam and Eve”.</span>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-34521066980434199492012-04-28T20:24:00.000-07:002012-04-28T20:24:00.772-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">The fat deposits suspended in fermented curd, when blended properly, transforms to pure butter. Likewise, though our brain is fermented with decadence of our culture and other materialistic elements, it indeed is embedded with some pure thoughts and its a matter of spending some solitary time to blend those thoughts to transform into a good philosophy.</span>
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">does it ring a bell with lord Krishna's butter? </span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-37078412412541990922011-09-17T06:08:00.000-07:002012-09-18T22:19:05.290-07:00அன்னை<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
சிப்பிக்குள் முத்தாகிப் , புளியிட்ட செப்பாகி,<br />
மண்ணுக்குள் பொன்னாகி, மண்ணிலே பெண்ணாகிப் பிறந்து,<br />
எனை வளர்க்க உனை கரைத்து,<br />
தியாகியாகி, எந்தன் ஆசானாகி,<br />
அன்பாகிப் , பண்பாகிப் , பிறர் போற்றும் ஒளி விளக்காகி<br />
நல்வழி காட்டும் ஒளியாகி<br />
உடையவனுக் குடனாகி, ஈன்றவன் தாயாகி,<br />
கற்பிர்க்கு அணியாகி, ஒப்பிலா மணியாகிச் சிறந்த நுன்,<br />
தாளணியாகி, அதிலும் தூளாகி வந்த மண்னும்,<br />
என் நெற்றி திலகமாகி திகழாதோ !<br />
என் எல்லாப் பிறப்பிலும்<br />
உன் வயிற்று சுமையாகி <br />
மகனாகிப் பிறக்கும் பேறை<br />
எனக்கு அவ்வொப்பிலா இறைவன் அருள மாட்டானா?
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-32387124311425802342011-09-17T06:01:00.000-07:002012-09-18T22:20:28.600-07:00அழகு<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h3 class="smller">
</h3>
<div class="para">
தமிழை அழகு என்றோம் <br />
தமிழ் தந்த கடவுள், <br />
முருகனை அழகு என்றோம் <br />
அன்பே, <br />
நீ அழகு என்றதால் <br />
உன்னை தமிழ் என்றேன் நான்
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-11086155717256885682011-09-17T05:54:00.000-07:002012-09-18T22:20:46.133-07:00நீ என்னை காதலித்தால்<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h3 class="smller">
</h3>
<div class="para">
உலகில் பிறந்த சந்தனம் எல்லாம்<br />
ஒன்றாய் இழைத்து ஆண்டவன்<br />
உன்னை படைத்தானோ </div>
<div class="para">
</div>
<div class="para">
ஆயிரம் சிப்பிகள் மது உண்டு முத்து உமிழினும்<br />
இணை ஆகுமோ உன் மல்லிகை மொட்டு பற்க்ளுக்கு<br />
<br />
பொன் வேண்டி ஏன் மண்ணை தொண்டுகிறார்<br />
புவியின் பொன் அனைத்தும், சிலையாய், பெண்ணாய்<br />
உன் வடிவில் நிற்கிறதே<br />
<br />
இறைவனின் மல்லிகை தோட்டத்தில்<br />
விளைந்த விண்மீன்கள் யாவையும்<br />
உன் வட்ட விழிக்குள் வைத்தாயோ?<br />
<br />
உன் சுவாசத்தை சுவாசித்த பின்<br />
மூச்சு விட மனசு இல்லையே <br />
<br />
விடியலில்,<br />
கமலங்கள் மலர்வதும், பறவைகள் பறப்பதும்<br />
கதிரோன் கண்டு என்றல்லவா நினைத்தேன்<br />
உன்னை கண்டபின் உணர்ந்தேன்<br />
அவை யாவும், நீ துயில் எழும் அழகைக் காண என்று !<br />
<br />
இயம்ப இயலா அழகை கண்டு<br />
இயற்கை என வியந்தோம்,<br />
அந்த இயற்கையும் வியக்கும் நுன்னை என்னென்று விளம்ப...<br />
<br />
தித்திக்கும் மலை தேனே, திகட்டாத அமுதே,<br />
இப்படி எல்லாம் உன்னை <br />
சத்தியமாய் கவிதை பாடுவேன்,<br />
நீ மட்டும் என்னை காதலித்தால்
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-19528841605494159062011-09-17T05:50:00.002-07:002012-09-18T22:21:00.523-07:00இழப்பு<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h3 class="smller">
</h3>
<div class="para">
மாலை முல்லை மலரும் வேளை,<br />
காலை கதிரவன் மறையும் வேளை,<br />
கதிரவன் கண்ட கமலம் போல்<br />
என் உதிரம் கலந்த நாயகி நினைவுகள்,<br />
சோலை மலர் நடுவில் மலர்கையில்,<br />
பாலை பறவை போல் தவிக்கும் என் உள்ளது<br />
நாயகி, என்னை மறந்து,<br />
பள்ளம் மேடு கடந்து கொண்டவனோடு<br />
வீதியில் உலா வருவது கண்டேன்<br />
வெண் துகிலில் இட்ட கரும்புள்ளி போல் <br />
என் வாழ்வில் வந்தவளை மறந்து,<br />
புதிய வாழ்வு தொடர, <br />
மற்றொரு நாயகி, என்னுள்ளம் ஏறினாள்,<br />
அவளும் மண்ணில் சிந்திய நீர் போல்,<br />
என்னை பிரிந்து செல்ல,<br />
இவ்வுலகத்துடன் பிரியா உறவுடை<br />
இயற்கை பெண்ணை காதலித்தேன்,<br />
வாழ்வின் வஞ்சனையோ,<br />
நிலையிலா இன்பம் வேண்டி, மனிதன்<br />
அவளையும் அழிக்க துவங்கி விட்டான்,<br />
<br />
இழப்பு என்பது எனக்கு மட்டும்<br />
என் அகராதியின் எல்லா பக்கததையும் அலங்கரிக்கிறதோ?
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-16121476790441394292011-09-17T05:50:00.000-07:002014-03-26T17:09:20.553-07:00இறைவன் எங்கே<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h3 class="smller">
</h3>
<div class="para">
அறிவியலும் இறைமையும் , <br />
அறியாமையால் அறியாத பேதை நான், <br />
அன்னை மடி பிறந்து<br />
முலையமுது உண்ட அனைத்து உயிர்க்கும்<br />
முதலில் தோன்றி, இடையில் மறந்து, <br />
முடிவில் மறையும் நிரந்தர கேள்வி, <br />
"இறைவன் யார், எங்கு இருக்கிறான்?" <br />
என் மதியிலும் துளிர்த்ததை <br />
மெதுவாய்க் கேட்டேன், சான்றோர் ஒருவரிடம் ! <br />
<br />
கதிரவன் அறிவும், மதியின் சாந்தும் கொண்டு, <br />
பசுமை வெற்றிலையாய்ப் பளிச்சித்ட அவர் முகம், <br />
பாக்கொடு பல்லிடை அரைத்த <br />
வெற்றிலையாய்ச் சிவந்து, பின் சினந்து கூறினார், <br />
"மூடனே, இறைவன் எங்கும் உள்ளார்" <br />
<br />
பாவம் ! <br />
அவர் என்னுள்ளும் உள்ள <br />
இறைவனைக் காண மறந்தார் போலும் !
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-56986681784210719802011-09-17T05:46:00.000-07:002012-09-18T22:21:35.363-07:00ஹைக்கூ<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
விண்மீன்கள்</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
இறைவனின் குழந்தை அளைந்து எறிந்த சோற்று பருக்கை !!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
காலை பறவை வேண்டி வானத்து தேவதை தூவிய தானியம் !!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-32260420656041477412011-03-15T17:43:00.000-07:002011-03-15T17:44:38.656-07:00Shadow of dark god- Indira goswami<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="xmsonormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">A book review: </span></span><br /></p><p class="xmsonormal"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Shadow of dark god by Indira Goswami</span><br /></p><p class="xmsonormal">The story is quite simple. It is set in vrindavan and knit closely with the life of radheshamis, young widows who decide to settle in vrindavan. Incidentally, vrindavan hosts the maximum number of hindu widows density in India and serves more like asylum to them.</p> <p class="xmsonormal">The story of two young widows, saudamani and shashi and that of a spinster, mrinalini depicts the life of radheshyamis assaulted with poverty and suffering from human wolves and greedy priests and pandas. The background of Saudamini and Shashi are entirely different, the former is supported by her father, Dr.Rai chaudary and well off, whereas the latter is dependent on an ashram and even forced to live with the priest, Alamgadhi against her will. Yet their lives are threaded together and follow more or less the same path.</p> <p class="xmsonormal">The feelings of young widows caught in the maze of desires, society and moral policing is captured with utmost clarity, a rare piece among the published literature.</p> <p class="xmsonormal">Saudamini lost her husband within a year and later lost her heart to a Christian youth for emotional support. Yes, she loved her late husband. But she hardly could recollect his face. And then she loved the Christian youth also. Loving another man after an untimely and death of her husband at a very young age may not be a sin. But her parents thought so and shifted to vrindavan.</p> <p class="xmsonormal">Most of us respect widows and often sympathize with them. But we push them to a raised platform of sainthood and believe that it’s the best one could ever do to protect them. We fail to understand that widows need support just like any other woman and not sainthood. For eg, Shashi did not love the priest, Alamgadhi with whom she was living with in the ashram. However, she lost a great support and social security in the latter’s death. This part of the novel was real finesse. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">This novel is a must read for those people who think that feminism is all about respecting women, fighting their ill-treatment and weeping over the miseries detailed by feminist authors in their fiction. Feminism is not about pitying women, but to acknowledge them and accommodate them as they are. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I was wondering , can anyone produce such a master piece without experiencing it first hand (I think such a clarity of reflecting female mind is difficult even for <span style=""> </span>females). Later I googled and found that the author herself is a young widow. She also had spent some part of her widowhood in vrindavan. And that justifies </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings;" lang="EN-GB"><span style="">J</span></span></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-45967314222581773562011-02-20T10:21:00.001-08:002011-02-20T10:22:14.023-08:00குழந்தை தொழிலாளிஉலகம் எங்கும் தீபாவளி, விண் எங்கும் வண்ணங்கள்,<br />மத்தாப்புக்கள், சர வெடிகள் , தரை சக்கரம் என<br />புதிதாக பல வகை வெடிகள்<br />அதிசயமாய்ப் பார்த்தாள், ஐந்து வயது அஞ்சலை,<br />அமைதியாய் அண்ணாந்து பார்த்து<br />பெருமையாய் அம்மாவிடம் கூறினாள்,<br />"அம்மா இதெல்லாம் நான் தான் செய்தேன்".........Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-13224117180010584922011-02-20T10:00:00.000-08:002011-02-20T10:15:34.168-08:00ஒரு முறை நீயும் வாராய்கண்ணா, நீயும் மறுபடி வாராய்<br />வந்தென் ஐயம் ஒரு முறை கேளாய்,<br />என்ன பார்க்கிறாய்?<br />சட்டை பை முதல் சாக்கு பை அளவிற்கு வித விதமாய்,<br />கீதை என்ற ஒரே புத்தகத்தை எழுதிய கில்லாடி,<br />உன்னை தான் ! !<br /><br />எந்தன் அன்னை,<br />அவளுடை அழகிய உடலை வருததி<br />எங்கோ சுழலும் கிரகங்கள் எண்ணி,<br />திங்கட் தோறும் நோன்பிருந்து,<br />நாள் முழுதும் உன் புகழ் பாடி,<br />என்றோ நீ திருடி தின்ற வெண்ணை குறித்து<br />இன்றும் அளவளாவி மகிழ்ந்தனள்.<br />அன்று நீ உடைத்த கலயம் பற்றி கவலைப்படவில்லை,<br />வீணான வெண்ணை எண்ணி வருந்தவுமில்லை<br /><br />எனின்,<br />எவருக்கும் துன்பம் தராமல்,<br />யாருக்கும் தெரியாமல் ஒருமுறை<br />ஒரே ஒருமுறை அப்பா பையிருந்து<br />மிட்டாய் வாங்க எடுத்த ஐம்பது காசிற்கு,<br />உடல் சிவக்க நையப் புடைத்து<br />உன் முன் மன்னிப்பு கேட்க சொன்னார் !<br />நான் செய்தால் பாவம்,<br />நீ செய்தால் லீலையா?<br />ஒரு வேளை, நீ திருடர்களுக்கெல்லாம் அரசனா?<br />அதனால் தான் நீ செய்த பிழைகளும் போற்றபபடுகிறதா?<br />சுயநலம் வேண்டி நியாயத்தை வளைக்க<br />நீ என்ன ஜாதி கட்சி தலைவரா?<br />இல்லை, இந்திய அமைச்சரா?<br />ஐந்தலை பாப்பின் மடியில்<br />சுகமாய் உறங்கியது போதும்,<br />ஒரு முறை நீ ஓடி வாராய்....<br />நியாயம் வேண்டி நீதி போதித்த<br />ஆசானிடம் மெதுவாய் குறை கூறினேன் !<br />சிறுவன் என்றும் பாராமல்,<br />சுருக்கென்று பிரம்பால் புடைத்தார்<br /><br />உன் அன்னை யசோதாவோ <br />உன் மலர் மேனி போர்த்திய தோல் துப்பும்<br />வியர்வைக்கும் வலிக்காமல் அடிப்பார்,<br />என்னுடை பிரம்படி எப்படித் தெரியுமா?<br />பாலில் கலந்த சர்க்கரை, முழுதும் கரைந்து, பின் எஞ்சியது<br />அடியில் தங்குவது போல்,<br />தொடையில் விழுந்த அடியின் வலி,<br />உடல் முழுதும் படர்ந்து , பின்<br />குருதி செல் நரம்பும் தசையும் தாண்டி,<br />என்பு வரை வலிக்கும் !<br /><br />ஞாயிறுதோறும் "மகாபாரதம்" நாடகத்தில்<br />வைகுண்டதில் படுத்து சிரிப்பது பார்த்தேன்,<br />ஒரு முறை பிரம்படி வாங்கினால் புரியும் ,<br />உன் வைகுண்ட புன்னகை எல்லாம்,<br />அரசியல் வாக்குறுதிகள் போல் காற்றில் பலந்து காணாமல் போய் விடும்,<br />எனக்கு வேண்டி, செல்ல கண்ணா<br />ஒருமுறை பூமிக்கு வாராய்,<br /><br />ஆனால், நான் புத்திசாலி,<br />நீ என்ன சொல்வாய் என்று எனக்கு தெரியும்,<br />" நண்பா, குமுறாதே , சற்று பொறு,<br />அடுத்த யுகத்தில், உன்னையும் கடவுளாக்கி<br />உன் ஐம்பது காசு திருட்டு குறித்து<br />வேறொரு அன்னை விரதம் இருப்பாள்"<br />ஹா ஹா ஹாAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-16530779446557481942011-02-12T21:10:00.000-08:002011-02-20T10:16:18.057-08:00அன்பே !<br />உள்ளொன்று புறமொன்று இருந்தால்<br />வஞ்சன் என்பார்கள்,<br />நானும் அப்படி தான்<br />உள்ளே நீ.<br />வெளியே நான்Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-13084066240357332192010-09-24T10:50:00.000-07:002010-09-24T10:56:49.672-07:00In search of Jaya Madhavan on a sunday morningMy friend, Ram is an ardent fan of Jaya Madhavan, a columnist in a leading newspaper. One day he came and told me,”You and Jaya Madhavan have a lot in common. Both of you write a lot about piss and shit”. That doesn’t mean that I’m columnist. I’ve made few amateur attempts in writing and my poor writing standard is one among the list of remaining few uncommon things between me and Jaya, which Ram had decided not to mention.<br />Since then, I’ve read several of Jaya’s columns, mostly through Ram and I fell in love with her writing (believe me, definitely not for Ram’s reasons). Since we were subscribing “The Hindu”, a proud symbol of educated tamil Brahmin family, I never had the pleasure of reading Jaya fresh on paper. Usually, Monday morning breakfast conversations would be dominated by Jaya and Ram. Ram used to send the link of her column even before reading his office email. Every Monday, I decide to buy her daily next Sunday so that I need not be dumb, stuffing tasteless office idlis when Ram discuses in detail about her article. Whether you like an article or not, when someone else, that too who irritates you by his presence six days a week asks, “oh, you haven’t read that?”, you automatically loses the power of your presence and I hate that.<br /> Recently I got an opportunity to win over Ram. It was an early Sunday morning and I was waiting in the bus stop for my friends with whom I had planned to attend our mutual friend’s marriage. The sky was still dark with patches of orange flashes struggling to break their cocoon clouds. A small shop opposite to the bus stop was busy with people sorting the dailies. Sundays are painful for them as most of the dailies have lots of magazines and they have to be carefully inserted. Sundays are also blissful for them as many stingy young men who generally on other days depend on office subscribed newspapers to update their poor general knowledge buy newspapers.<br /> The first thing that flashed in my mind was that I’m going to read Jaya’s columns fresh and the immediate second thing that occurred was that I can confidently talk about it next day. I crossed the road swiftly and paused in front of the shop. The lady, busy in sorting magazines looked at me. I asked, “India today please”. She turned around and gave me a magazine. I was waiting for a daily and shocked to receive a magazine. I said, “Not this, India today news paper”. She looked at me differently, yes differently. Ptchth ‘India today’ is a weekly magazine, not a daily. Clad in decent formals, I looked like a joker to her as I, though appears to be educated, didn’t even met the basic expectation of knowledge in newspapers. I have already made the damage. Now I have two options (1) to pretend that I had actually intended the magazine only and buy it from her (2) think for a while to identify the correct daily. Both the options were not going to repair my lost image to the shop keeper. The former one would cost me a magazine and I would still be devoid of Jaya’s column. So I attempted the 2nd option; brooded for a while trying to remember all the newspapers I knew. Only name that repeatedly circled my mind was “The Hindu”. Damn this tamil brahmin pride of Hindu paper and filter coffee. I haven’t seen anything other than that throughout my life. I wanted to ask her “please gimme the newspaper with jaya’s column”, but ended up asking, “there’s some other news paper with India..”. She looked at me as if she had stamped over roadside dog shit (now, I was actually not keen for the metaphor of dog shit, but wrote it out of my respect for Ram). She didn’t expect a well educated man coming an asking a shop keeper for an English news paper without even knowing what he is asking for. My total confidence reached its avalanche limit and my inner heart felt loose like phlegm. I just wanted to get rid of the place as soon as possible. The lady took ‘Times of India’ and handed over it to me. I shared a thanking smile, hurriedly paid her and walked back to the bus stop without a second look. I’m sure she might have had a topic for her dinner “These days young IT guys… I donno what they are.. they are just a useless junk…and ….”.. (Sorry my dear unknown friends of IT; public attribute any stupid attitude of this generation to IT professionals and unknowingly I was one of the recent damaging elements).<br /> After reaching bus stop, I thought of diverting myself with Jaya. Shit… She had not written anything on that Sunday. My entire image staked for an unwritten article. How will I cross the road everyday? Won’t the lady laugh at me every time I cross the shop? Won’t she share the joke among her fellow friends and won’t it spread to the neighborhood. I suddenly started imagining myself in the centre of the busstop and whole velachery crowded around me laughing at my lack of knowledge of newspapers.<br />I couldn’t stand there anymore. My friends called me every ten minutes to tell that they were on their way and would reach in five minutes. I stood there rigid for more than 40 minutes and left the place in the first bus with my friends. And for forty minutes during my stay, I hadn’t turned towards the shop.<br />I came home tired in the afternoon and briefed my anguish to my younger sister, when she asked “Are you referring to Jaya madhavan of Indian expreAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-28469227590055413632010-06-10T13:08:00.000-07:002010-06-10T13:09:39.861-07:00A very very short story- submitted for a contestPlace: Mars<br /><br />People are bald and prematurely aged. Everybody carries oxygen cylinders. Advanced solar vehicles are the only means of mobility.<br /><br />Gayathri was having dinner, a plateful of artificially synthesized powder, the only food in planet. Pointing out to the orange heavenly body, she asked, “Whats that?” Her mom sighed, “That’s earth, where our ancestors once lived. The nature fell prey to greedy men and poor earth is now bald like us”.<br /><br />Save environmentAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-1635106207148641272009-11-22T09:01:00.000-08:002009-11-22T09:02:36.053-08:00Abstractness during a train journey22nd Sep 2009 to Hyderabad<br /><br />Train crossed the Ashok Leyland factory, like a jet piercing the clouds, leaving behind a white trail. My heart jumped to tell someone beside, “hey my factory”, but condemned the anxiety as childish. Well, many of the childish happiness nowadays are beyond reach due to consciousness of self behaviour.<br /> I went towards the compartment’s exit to smell the gushing air kissing the steel sheets skirting the train. It was drizzling and the setting sun appeared behind the rain. It appeared as if the great orange ball is encaged behind the vertical water bars of rain. The sun, a ball of dazzling pure orange started sinking in the clouds beneath like an innocent victim of quicksand.<br /> I felt helpless and inert, like my inertness towards corruption, inertness towards filthy politicians, inertness towards victims of social harassments and many other things in society. I then realized that my inertness was actually born out of my inability, a shameless failure of my will power. The so called inertness, a witness of helplessness made me feel abashed; the sorrow, heavy by itself climbed my mind and up to my brain. My neck couldn’t bear the additional emotional load above and my head hung down automatically. <br />My eyes then capsuled the green fields spread across halfway till horizon. Like nodes of a finite element mesh, the shrubs buttoned itself into the clay submerged in the sheet of water. The sun reflected its rays of hope from the cloud’s quicksand. The elongated orange rays from sun laid down on the sheet of water reminded me again of my muteness towards sun’s request to retrieve it from the cloud’s claw. <br />The train later passed a power plant, the flames as high as the 50 feet danced brilliantly. A sense of bliss and achievement was visible in the fire when it looked around the charred building, contentment over its dominance. Above the chimney, black soot rose and slowly, very slowly diffused into the transparent air. <br />I looked above; the sun has descended further, yielding itself to the power of clouds beneath. A great realization stuck me again, the whole sky, dark now must have been formed from the constant burning of the purest form of fire, the sun. I looked back at the fire in power plant, its notorious smile while vomiting the smoke was evident. I looked up again; the realization filtered the knowledge contained within. The evil smoke vomited by the sun in the past billions of years has formed the great sky and it has now re-formed to quicksand to kill the sun in the evening.<br />The heavy headed flames in the powerplant continued sending black smoke, without realizing that one day, all these smoke is going to engulf the very flame which had produced it.<br /> It is very similar to our life. Every bad conduct sends a poison from us to the outside world. It quickly dilutes itself with the society. Haunted by our everyday activities, we fail to notice both its emergence and disappearance. One day all the poison emitted by us will definitely kill our soul and or our body.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17804394514430162591noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1159261007933354838.post-40226998872989175402009-11-01T09:17:00.000-08:002013-09-30T17:07:33.289-07:005 star ladies hostel- A short story<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-style: italic;">(The theme of the story is inspired from a true incident told by one of my dearest friends, whom I respect for all she is.)</span><br />
<br />
The bus stopped inside usilampatti muddy bus stand with a heavy sigh from its brakes after a long 14 hours journey. I got down from the bus when the dust was still attempting to settle down. The dust took its revenge over the bus for disturbing its hibernation by settling down on my trouser perhaps because I travelled in that bus. It was still early morning and the yellow rays from sun had not picked up its temperature yet. I decided to take the shortcut behind the bus stand so that I could reach my house in ten minutes after 15 turns and 8 crossings. Velappan was coming back after his morning schedule of milk distribution. Seeing me, he smiled broad enough to expose his loss of one tooth in the upper jaw. ”sundara, have you forgotten us? How are you? How is the weather over there? Huh! You seemed to have lost weight and I think you were much fairer last time”, he continued and pedalled away neither waiting for my reaction nor reply. I just kept smiling till he was out of sight.<br />
I knocked my neighbour’s door to collect the keys. Kamalam mami emerged amidst her busy kitchen schedule with the remains of rice dough in one hand and saree is tucked in for swift and easy perambulation in her cramped kitchen., which hadn’t witnessed a single whitewash after Gopalan master’s ( kamalam’s husband) retirement 8 years back. She gave me the key, enquired about me, the same set of queries I’m encountering since velappan.<br />
Though it is hardly one year since I had come here, I felt nostalgic, especially after my father’s demise last year. The emptiness of the small house devoid of his physical presence definitely reflected a part of heart’s feelings, which still haven’t recovered from the emptiness he had left back. He was an ordinary farmer by profession. But, his respect and love for my mother made him extraordinary, especially in this society packed with filthy male chauvinistic pigs. Somehow most of the men in the society think that wives are mere alternatives for cheap labor, a live machine to replace housemaid, mixie, grinder, washing machine and above all a dumb robot made just to vent her husband’s frustration. I thought the poor fate of the society’s fair sex is confined only to my town of usilampatti. In my past few years in Chennai, I can boldly claim that the male domination is a part of every single family, whether it is usilampatti or Chennai or for that case any society which has human beings. Even those gentlemen and ladies talking and writing at length about women freedom do not spare themselves from their attitude of male domination. <br />
The freedom for women in its real sense can be achieved only by changing men’s mind and nothing else. Till men change their attitude to accept their counterpart as equals, women’s social freedom will be just but a distant mirage. My father not only understood this, but also lived by what he understood. He respected my mother and hence was an aberration in the small town. My father used to tell that only those families who can respect their ladies will prosper in their life. I sometimes feel guilty at my prosperity as it can be staked as evidence against my father’s hypothesis. <br />
After enjoying nice fresh water bath in the stream nearby, I finished the customary duty of visiting all the houses in the street. Each family had a lot to share with, some joyous, some sorrowful, and the prize of patient listening would be a filter coffee at the end. The day melted quickly giving way to the milky moon light. I was relaxing in my father’s easy chair in our pyol, when ramaswamy, a grocery shop owner living in the corner house hobbled towards me, “Hey sundara how are you? Was busy on the shop for the whole day. Sita( his wife) told that you had come”. I welcomed him, hiding my irritation of his unsolicited entrance disturbing my solitary bliss amidst the moonlight and neem breeze. A casual chat on the climate, water problem and politics went on for a while. Ramaswamy, with a sudden curiosity asked, “What are you in Chennai?”.<br />
“Well, I’m a real estate agent where I actually help people buy, sell or rent their properties. It’s basically a service business.”<br />
<br />
“oh ! Broker a”<br />
<br />
“Ptch!!, Despite my endeavours to avoid the ignominy of being called as ‘broker’, I fall victim to such affronts, especially at a place like my hometown. Why can’t people use ‘real estate agent’? Doesn’t it sound more decent? When I first came to Chennai, I didn’t intend to become the so called ‘broker’. I wanted to start a business of my own. “Business !!, that’s not for people like us”, amma had exclaimed when I told her my plan for the first time. I argued and convinced her later that business needs only acumen and is not confined to one set of people. Later, I had to convince my father for financing me and I carefully delegated the responsibility to amma. <br />
“Sundar wants to start a business in Chennai.”<br />
“Business!!!”, almost the same exclamation as that of amma.<br />
“Like Tata and Birla?”, my father asked. Any one or anything related to business is extrapolated to Tatas and Birlas. For example, after my settling in Chennai, amma used to tell her neighbours, “my son is doing business, like Tata and Birla”, this time Tata and Birla are seated in a statement of pride. When I told my friends “I’m doing business”, they reply back “oh, like Tata and Birla?”, a hint of sarcasm.<br />
Huh! I really pity Tata and Birla; for they are the most used and abused names in Indian family’s conversation on business.<br />
Ramaswamy interrupted my flashback thoughts, “Sundara I have come to you for a favour. Who else I know in Chennai and who else could help me”. One good thing about usilampatti people is that they talk straight to the point. Though Ramaswamy tried to plodder around, he couldn’t manage to conceal his plea for more than a short interval. In less than 5 minutes, I understood that Ramaswamy’s daughter had finished her engineering and she was planning to come to Chennai for a job search and that I was supposed to take care of her. A sense of pride over powered my irritation, at being entrusted with the new responsibility of being the girl’s guardian. It meant that I would have to take her to Chennai, find a good accommodation, take long walks with her during the late evenings when the roads are relaxed from traffic, advice her like a father, listen to her childish narration, take care of her health and list went on. Coupled with my pride, a sense of satisfaction started creeping in; like that when you feel when you help a blind cross the road or that you feel when you buy a biscuit and a cup of tea to the road side crippled beggar and so on. <br />
With my acceptance and within a week, the three of us (Ramaswamy, his daughter Gayathri and I) left to Chennai. When we reached usilampatti bus stand, half of the village had assembled to bid Gayathri farewell. Everyone had the same farewell message, “Gayu, you wont forget me, will you? And don’t forget to write letters”. Indian postal department should be proud about usilampatti as its still unaffected by internet and its viruses. <br />
Gayathri proved in our journey, why she deserves such an affectionate farewell. Within the twelve hour journey to Chennai, I knew all her details, the schools she studied in, her friends and their families, her teachers and their families, her neighbours and their families and the list went on. Since I knew many of the people she referred to, she got even more excited at my acknowledgement and went into further details to ensure that she was able to feed me with some first hand information. Her main ambition, it seemed was to join a software company. And I also understood from her that most of the engineer’s dream and ambition is to be a software engineer, where a fat salary fills the pocket, enabling them to enter into a new culture characterized by Pizzas, latest English movies and an on-site trip to the western hemisphere. About a century back, Indians were transported to Malaya and Burma in bulk by the British for rubber plantation. Their families sent them with cheer and lots of hope for clearing their financial debts. Little did they know then that these people were going as slaves to obey the orders of a capitalist. When I see the software engineers slogging late hours and weekends under the pretext of competition and career development, I somehow see not much difference between software engineers and those rubber plantation workers.<br />
“Wow, how beautiful sunrise is,” Gayathri got up. “It looks like an orange, but in usilampatti, we don’t get oranges like this. That mohan, the fruit vendor sells only lemon sized oranges. Instead we can buy lemon itself. Ha, why should we buy lemon? Mangalam mami has a lemon tree in her garden and she is generous in distributing her lemons, unlike Kavitha mami who guards her guava tree as though she won’t even let the squirrels touch it…….”, she stopped finishing one around of gossip about all her neighbours and friends. Suddenly she stopped, “what uncle, you are talking since I got up, let me brush my teeth”, and she left. There was complete silence other than the periodic lullaby of train’s wheels. <br />
We soon reached my one-room apartment cum office in Anna nagar. Before evening tea, I had found an accommodation for Gayathri. It’s hardly few streets away from my apartment. A white board hung outside and within its faded area was encapsulated in small blue font, “5 star ladies hoste”, sacrificing the ‘l’ of the hostel to environment. The lady in charge, in a shiny chiffon blue saree matching the font colour of the board outside, welcomed us clenching her broad smile to her beautiful face. With age, she was overgrown and her cheek muscles drooped making her smile even broader. The tiny vermilion mark caught between her eyebrows melted in the Chennai sun and descended her long nose. When she assured safe lodging for Gayathri, all of us were convinced.<br />
Next day Gayathri shifted to ‘5 star ladies hoste”. The lady was in a plain green cotton saree and more beautiful than the previous day. A sign of maturity and responsibility blended with love may describe her in brief. Ramaswamy couldn’t control his outpour of the gathered tears hidden under his eyelids. Before leaving, he thanked me thousand times for my service. <br />
Days went on, I often met Gayathri, and mostly when she came to ‘M.G. internet café’, diagonally opposite to my apartments. She would go through all the job search sites, read tips to make good resume and keep applying. With hundred applications and no responses, she came there again to re-edit her resume and explore new companies. Often, our meeting would confluence to the coffee house nearby. Our one hour meeting would witness her talking for 60 minutes, with diverse topics ranging from job market, usilampatti, her friends and so on. And never had she failed once to tell some good things about the lady in charge.<br />
Occasionally I used to visit her in her hostel, for after all I’m her local guardian. I felt a parental responsibility for Gayathri, may be because of Ramaswami’s trust over me, or perhaps the self-consciousness of ageing witnessed by the graying hairs over my ears. I would be able to hear Gayathri at the gate itself and would wonder whether there is a time in her life when she could remain silent for 5 minutes. She used to greet me with her cherubic smile and immediately start talking, “uncle how long have you been , you know what happened yesterday…. “, a lady in brown house coat passed us, Gayathri interrupted, “hey Kavi, I old you about an uncle from my home town isn’t….”, she continued for a while when someone else passed with Gayathri interrupting again. After some time, she turned to me as if gaining consciousness after an accident, “uncle, what were we talking?” I was amused by her use of “we” as she was the one who used to talk and I would merely listen.<br />
I got a wealthy client who was looking for investing his big chunk of black money in real estate. Money in black pays well and I soon became busy. One day Gayathri called me and said that her lady in charge was planning to take all the hostel in-mates for new-year party. She sought my opinion and I encouraged her to go out as it would definitely be a good change for her. <br />
Two days later, I got a call from her hostel conveying an unbearable message. Gayathri had committed suicide. I rushed to her hostel. The whole building was silent, evidencing the void of Gayathri’s departure. The wrinkled thin white cloth formed an opaque layer over Gayathri’s dead body. The lady in charge explained that she was in love with a guy and he had cheated her. She showed some letters from her bag.<br />
The post mortem report confirmed that Gayathri was raped before the incident. Ramaswamy’s fragile hand trembled when he received her body from police custody. We neither spoke nor ate anything. The shock drenched in sorrow melted and mixed with my stomach fluids causing some uneasiness. The sorrow vapourized, expanded and occupied my abdomen and chest. It further expanded pressurizing my ribs and choked my lungs. Like a safety valve, my eyelids gave way to the sorrow fluid and tears flew.<br />
Separation and sorrow are inseparable. Even earth enforces gravity on its objects to escape the sorrow of separation. Gayathri, was suddenly omnipresent; in my apartment, in the net centre, in the coffee shop, her memories dwelled everywhere. Her innocent talk kept echoing into my ears. I was like a parent or an elder brother to her, enjoy and relished the bits of services to Gayathri; sometimes it was posting her resume, sometimes it was buying some stationeries, sometimes even accompanying her for interviews. All these, however insignificant it may be, had acted as a catalyst to improve our relation. Thinking further on these lines, I was convinced that I was closer to her that we acknowledged. The revelation brought along with it some amount of possessiveness into my mind. I felt that she should have discussed it with me and my intervention then could have avoided this tragedy. Had I known about her affair with that unknown guy, I would have admonished her, or I would have dealt straight with that guy. I felt like killing the guy who took advantage of her innocence. With the anger drifting towards the guy, my possessiveness shared its positive side of compassion to Gayathri.<br />
Often I missed her and more often I became frustrated. I wanted to take her to beach temple; wanted to buy her the pearl ear-stud which she sighed at with awe when we went to Hyderabad bazaar, wanted to cook her favourite pulaav and so many other things which were postponed added fuel to my burning frustration.<br />
As time went by, my sorrow slowly melted like candle wax. Gayathri’s memories were only intermittent; her constant presence slipped to dreams at night. The rigidity of her thoughts relaxed its grips and my real estate business diluted it further. I became busy with the wealthy client to convert his black money to land. That day I went to internet centre to email my client about a property.<br />
I heard a voice, “hey it’s the lady at 5 star hostel”, the voice belonged to a group of excited guys in my next cubicle. From my seat, I could see a portion of their monitor. Yes, they were right, it was the same lady in charge of 5 star ladies hostel. My astonishment in what I witnessed later sealed me into my chair. The lady in charge was calm as usual; but the girls around her were crying, some of them looked tired; some of them bleeding and yet the lady in charge’s tranquility was intact. <br />
Oh my God, that’s Gayathri. What am I seeing? Is it true? No, this can’t be. I wanted to close my eyes, but couldn’t; I wanted to run, but couldn’t. My legs went tired, a solid mass of energy just escaped out of my body, like air out of a burst balloon. I was stone fixed as two men damaged Gayathri. She protested vehemently, but in vain. The lady in charge stood beside, smiling. Ahh ! I ran out, like a mad man towards unknown destiny to escape an unknown force following me. However, despite my restlessness and hasty running, a corner of my mind smiled at my consciousness and told, “How much ever you run, you can’t escape the guilt inside forever”.</div>
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